Machine (21 page)

Then one jar caught Fanule’s attention. Its etheric contents, bright and beautiful, swirled as if they’d been jostled. Ribbons of light blue and green, yellow and orange pulsed, expanded, contracted, and intertwined. Lobes formed and withdrew. Occasionally, a filament of white appeared, curling through the hazy edges of the bands like gleaming silk thread. When Fanule approached the jar, the hues both misty and brilliant crowded against the glass.

“William,” he whispered, irresistibly compelled to cup his hands on either side of the jar.

A distinct tingle prickled through his fingers and against his palms. His hands were soon limned by layers of blue and purple, and the white thread, widening, encased the other colors like angelic gloves.

“William,” he whispered again, resting his forehead against the glass. It was surprisingly warm. “Forgive me. Come back to me.”

Don’t attempt to use the Machine, Fanule. It could do more harm than good. Leave it alone. You don’t need it. You’re a lightsucker.

He jerked back, gulping air, and looked around. No one was in the wagon with him. Had the voice been inside his head? He couldn’t identify it, didn’t even know if it was male or female. As he steadied his breathing, he closed his eyes, hoping to hear more.

The Spark is a form of light. Draw each Spark out of confinement, then release it from your hold. Give it a compass to guide it home.

Fanule had no idea how sucking in these “Sparks” would affect him. And where was he to get—?

His bafflement fled within seconds. The flowers! He checked his pockets for them, found them still tucked within. But how could he offer a flower to an insubstantial mass of energy?

“Just do it,” he muttered to himself. “And start now.”

Of course he turned first to William’s prison.
Don’t overthink this. Don’t get sidetracked. Treat the Spark like any other light.

Fortifying himself with deep breaths, he stared at the swirl of glowing colors and steadily sucked it in.

The effort made his whole body tremble. This wasn’t like drawing in simple light. The complex brilliance seemed to sear his corneas and pound against the inside of his skull. Then it did something regular light never did: it slid into his chest.

Swaying, he made a fluttering sound. For one scintillating moment he felt William inside of him, felt every aspect of William’s nature blooming within him—especially the power and purity of William’s love. But… it was stained a damp gray with confusion, sadness, loneliness. And worry.

Fanule blindly pulled a compass flower out of his pocket. He knew instinctually when he’d drawn in all of William’s essence. It flooded his own spirit and overwhelmed his senses. He briefly closed his eyes, which terminated the suctioning process, and held his cupped hands before his face. Within them lay the compass flower. His gaze was directed at it when he lifted his eyelids.

“Go home,” he whispered.

With a dizzying rush that knocked Fanule backward, William’s spirit swept over his hands in a torrent. Fanule reeled. The inside of his body seemed to collapse like a popped balloon inside a papier-mâché form. When he could focus again, he saw the compass flower was gone.

Gulping air, he blinked. Smiled. Began to titter. All the dismal desperation that had bloated him began to trickle out. It was still too soon to know if he’d been successful, but he certainly felt heartened.

Now, where was Clancy?

Guilt stung Fanule at the thought. He shouldn’t be playing favorites. He should just go from bottle to bottle and jar to jar in turn. But, he reminded himself, Marrowbone’s situation was possibly the most dire. His physical body was in danger, as was Simon’s.

A larger jar held the most likely aura, a cyclone of red and black and greenish brown, along with violet, orange, and silver. Fanule approached it and touched it. “Clancy?”

The colors blazed into agitation. Blackness dripped through them all, throbbing. Fanule’s fingertips burned.

Marrowbone was distressed and infuriated. Given half a chance, he’d do to Zofen what he’d done to Fanule’s would-be assassin.

“You need to relax,” Fanule murmured, “or you’ll shred my eyes and mangle my brain.” Tensing, he began to suck.

Drawing in Clancy’s Spark was both agonizing and exciting, like trying to contain sexually charged lightning. Fanule’s balls tightened. He could’ve sworn he felt his ribs crack. In spite of the pain, his arousal mounted. The pressure within him was intense and relentless. Just as he began to feel faint, he knew he’d drawn in all there was, and his eyes snapped shut.

Flushed with exertion and embarrassment, he readied the compass flower.

“You made me come, you bastard,” he mumbled as he opened his eyes. “Now go home to Simon.”

The wagon rocked. Fanule’s legs shook as Marrowbone’s essence gushed over his palms. He felt an effervescent tickle of humor, saw a devilish smile. His cock, sticky from his own shocking release, pulsed at Clancy’s departure.

Well
,
he thought,
that was unexpected.

The wagon still held nine trapped spirits, including Ulney’s and Yissi’s. Fanule suspected that Zofen had drawn in many more over the years but, for one reason or another, had released most of them. Some had probably proved of no interest to him. Others, he’d likely grown tired of. The ones remaining were either recent “catches” or essences that especially fascinated him.

With some trepidation, Fanule wondered how pulling in the rest of these spirits would affect him. He only hoped he wouldn’t liberate someone truly, violently evil. As soon as he had that thought, he felt strangely confident all would be well. But he could tell from the way his forehead and temples ached that he’d have to rest a bit between drawings-in. Sucking light alone drained his energy. This was a hundred times more taxing.

Fanule was rubber-limbed and dripping with sweat when he finished releasing the last spirit. Pain pounded at the inside of his skull. For the hell of it, or maybe for the heaven of it, he stumbled around the Spiritorium, slapping at its snaking tubes and shivering wires, knocking them askew. He half expected them to turn on him, claim him as their final victim. He imagined the tubes coiling round his body like ravenous pythons, their mouths latching on to his flesh. He imagined the wires drilling into his enemy eyes.

None of that happened. The tubes and wires, all in disarray from his swatting, hung around him as limply as crepe-paper streamers. Fanule kicked at the lever beside the gold-plated chair. With the ponderous
click-click-click
of interlocking gears, the chair, or rather its disc-shaped pedestal, made a single revolution and ground to a halt.

Fanule draped his arms over his head and closed his aching eyes. The whites were probably red, awash in blood from ruptured capillaries. Forcing them open, he checked his coat pocket. One compass flower remained.

Maybe it’s for me
, he thought with a tired smile.
Maybe it will keep
my
spirit on the right track.

After casting a final look at the glass containers to make sure all were empty, he shuffled to the wagon’s double doors and clomped down its wooden steps.

The snow fell more heavily now, flakes dancing through the wood like tiny faeries and collecting on every surface save the roof of the Spiritorium. Fanule looked up, blinking as they landed on his eyelashes. Their light, cold kisses felt like blessings on his eyes.

“Fare thee well,” he said to the spirits that wafted homeward across the leaden skies.

Good job
, the wind seemed to whisper through the trees.
Good job.

Bemused, Fanule turned in a full circle. An uncertain smile tugged at his lips.

As he completed his rotation, the Spiritorium shimmered like a mirage and melted, spangling the snowflakes with gold, into the wintry air.

T
AINTWELL
’
S
GASLIGHTS
hissed in the darkness as moisture gathered in their jets. Lizabetta was waiting at Fanule’s house.

She gasped when she saw his eyes. “Dear goddess, what happened to you? You look like you sucked the light from the sun!”

“I feel that way, too.”

“Let me take care of it.” Betty’s head leveled itself with Fanule’s. She passed her hands over his eyes, then blew very softly on each one. “There. The redness is subsiding.”

“Thank you. How is William?”

Betty assured him William was physically fine and sound asleep. “You can tell me tomorrow or the day after how things went,” she said.

“Have there been any signs that he’s—?”

“No questions. I’m leaving now. Just go in the bedroom and stay there until he wakes up.” Betty drifted toward the back door and stopped. “Your father?”

“Gone. For good. Along with his wagon.”

“And the Machine?”

“It was inside. So it’s gone too.”

Betty nodded. “Did you reach any kind of peace with him?”

The question gave Fanule a start. He hadn’t had the time or mental space to give the matter much thought. “Maybe, partially,” he said. “In a way. Not all reunions are happy ones, Betty.”

“Or families,” she added, then smiled with sad empathy. “Well, at least ‘maybe, partially, in a way’ is better than ‘hell no.’” She turned toward the door but once again turned back. “You know, dear Fan, you’ve not only earned your title, you’ve infused it with meaning. ‘Eminence of Taintwell’ no longer sounds pompous and silly. It sounds majestic. And it suits you.” She touched her fingers to her lips, although her hand seemed more to pass through her face, and blew him a parting kiss.

“S
IMON
?” T
HE
muffled voice punctuated a furious pounding. “Simon, damn it, have you lost your mind? Let me out of here before I smash these fucking doors to smithereens!”

Startled awake, Bentcross rolled out of bed with a thud and a string of curses. “Clancy?” he whispered, rubbing his elbow.

“
Simon!
” The floor quaked.

He scrambled to his feet and lunged toward the dim rectangle of the bedroom doorway. “Clancy!” he cried, making his way through the kitchen, banging his shin on a chair. “Is that you? Are you throwing a tantrum? Please tell me it’s you and you’re throwing a tantrum.” Once he’d stumbled out of his house and into the snow-flecked darkness, he flung aside the canvas covering the cellar doors. “I’m here, darling, I’m here. I’ll let you out.”

“Don’t call me darling, you lunatic! Why are you holding me prisoner?”

Simon responded with an ecstatic grin. “Yes, it’s you.” He fumbled in his pockets for the key to the padlock.

“Who else would it be? Have you kept other men in your cellar like crocks of pickles? And where are my clothes? And why am I bandaged?”

With a heavy clatter, Simon pulled the chain free and lifted the doors. He was still beaming.

Clancy shot out of the dark cavity like an albino bat with a score to settle, yet he landed beside Simon with his characteristic grace. Simon immediately kissed him, fervidly, then wrapped his arms around Clancy’s smooth, slender body. It was cool again, not feverishly warm.

“Come inside,” he said. “Your clothes are in the bedroom. They’re all clean.”

He felt Clancy’s muscles relax and then tighten in a different way as he returned the embrace, as he rested his cheek against Simon’s hair.

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly.

“I’ll tell you later.” Gods, it felt so good to hear Clancy’s voice, to hold him, to know he was himself again. Soon they’d be bantering and bickering, laughing and loving. They’d be together.

“Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Something’s happened that wasn’t good for either of us.”

“Yes.”

“Was I burned by the sun? My skin feels tight and tender under these bandages.”

Simon nodded. “I’ve been taking care of you, not keeping you prisoner. You haven’t quite been… in your right mind.” He pulled back far enough to look into Clancy’s eyes. “Gods, I love you. Now I know just how much. Don’t ever again feel you must answer to me or be at my beck and call. Tell me to go to straight to hell if I make any demands on you. I mean that.”

Smiling pensively, Marrowbone touched his face. “Some demands are justified, Simon.” He moved toward the back door. “Come on. You must be freezing out here. I’ll wash up and get dressed and shoot into the city to feed. Then I’ll come right back.” When they entered the dark house, Clancy again turned to Simon. “We’ll have the whole night to—” Smiling, he pushed his hips against Simon’s. Simon drew in a sharp breath. Clancy’s cock was rigid, demanding, and his own instantly stiffened in response. “It seems I haven’t been satisfied in a while,” Clancy murmured against Simon’s neck. “My flesh feels ready to split open like an overripe fruit.”

Simon groaned as they kissed. “Feed here,” he said in a husky voice, pulling his shirt open to bare his chest. Buttons pattered to the floor. He’d never felt such keen excitement.

The indigo of Clancy’s eyes deepened as he lowered his gaze to the offering. Thin red lines scintillated around his irises. His breath quickened, coming hard through his plush, slack lips. “You shouldn’t have said that. It’s an invitation, and very ill-advised.” Still, he languorously swiped his tongue through the dark hair on Simon’s chest.

Light-headed and panting, Simon pressed toward him. “Do it. I want you to.” They began kissing.

“It’s a very erotic experience. Heady.” Clancy’s cool mouth, warming now, again slid downward. “Your climax will be like none you’ve ever felt before. The fact we love each other will make it even more intense.”

Simon’s cobs felt like knots of flame. “You’re not exactly dissuading me, you know.” He felt the sharp scrape of Marrowbone’s piercing teeth across one nipple. Pulsing, his jack began to leak. He clumsily undid his trousers and shoved them down.

Clancy growled as their unyielding cocks crushed together. He dug his fingers into Simon’s back and thrust his hips forward and sucked at Simon’s sweat-slicked skin. His restraint was palpable—a hot, squirming thing.